Things You Lost On A Sunny Afternoon
by scuttlesworth
Summary: There's a funeral to go to. Post-Reichenbach.


There is a church service. John thinks, as he steps from the bright light of the afternoon into the arched interior of one of London's lesser-known gothic monstrosities, that it is echoing with shadows. With death. Silly thought.

He also thinks that Sherlock would have been utterly, amusingly contemptuous of the procedure. When Mycroft told him, while he sat in Lestrade's office for almost a full extra 24 hours with his hands wrapped around a cuppa and tried to figure out where he could go that was neither Bart's nor home, he remembers starting in shock. Sherlock would hate this, he thought. He'd have wanted a simple cremation. Possibly to be contained in a gold urn in the middle of Newgate Prison, or dumped in the Thames, or donated to science as a study. A church service is the last thing he'd ever agree to.

But John is not family, and though he opens his mouth and says "He'd hate that" he knows it's not up to him. Mycroft merely nods agreement though, his lips twisting. "It's no longer up to him," Mycroft says, echoing John's thoughts - and in a tone of voice that John thinks contains a bit of anger, and possibly blame. Well. People all grieve in different ways, and if Mycroft's way is to sound as though this is inconvenient and he's being put to a great deal of effort - John won't be the one to say him nay. Not while he's sitting in Lestrade's office completely unable to decide where he ought to go. Apparently his own method of grieving is complete paralysis.

A few hours later Lestrade sent him back to the flat in a squad car with some young, fresh-faced constable, and instructions to the constable to get him into bed. The constable got him up to the door before he began to shake. In the end, the constable went in and packed a bag for him, and drove him 'round to Greg's. If you're going to sleep on someone's sofa for 18 hours straight, you ought to be on a first-name basis.

It felt as though time had gone by far too quickly. It didn't feel as though three days had passed. There was some official mumbling about not wanting to release the body until the investigation was concluded, but Greg said Mycroft quashed it. A sign of family feeling, John thought.

Inside the church, John isn't sure where to sit. He's never been terribly religious. Not an atheist, not exactly, not like Sherlock - but aside from a few Sundays as a child, he's never really seen the need for all the fuss. And the little town he'd lived in had nothing quite this ornate, with all the different seats in their little sections. He's sure there's an etiquette to it all, one he's ignorant of. In the end he sits far off to one side. From there he can see everyone who comes and goes.

The service is simple. It is both too long in the middle, dragging on interminably, and too short; over to soon. They're all standing and shuffling up to the casket, which is closed and has a photo on it. John can't think why. There wasn't that much damage. Then again, he's not a mortician. Perhaps there was more damage to the skull than he thought. Perhaps they were unable to put those fine features back together again quite right.

He stands and is walking out, he needs some fresh air Very Very Badly, he's almost out and free when Anthea steps from the shadows. Her face is all sympathy, for once actually seeing him; he doesn't care. "Mycroft wants…" she trails off. John nods, jerkily, his face averted. He's not crying but he's about to vomit and that would be worse. He steps to the entrance and leans back against the doorjamb, staring down at the grey stone steps. There are dips in the middle where centuries of feet have worn them down. There's a grain of rice stuck in one of the cracks. Wedding, he thinks, numb.

Footsteps from inside. Mycroft and someone else. John looks up, and they emerge from the shadows; Mycroft's tall, sombre, black and looming figure and a smaller, thinner, delicate woman, hanging on his arm. John can only take her in piece by piece; he can't seem to look at her all at once. Not in the face, at any rate. He has an impression of fine elegant features and a proud nose. Her hair is black but going silver, no dye for her; her suit is conservative black wool, seeming sturdier than she is. There are lines around her pale pale eyes and bracketing her mouth, and John looks down to her black-gloved hands because he can't meet that cat-slanted gaze. Not now.

"You are the John my boys spoke of," she says, her voice low. John manages to breathe in and nod. Her hand comes up, cool leather touches his cheek. A moment later he wishes he'd shaved better this morning because he knows there's still a bit of stubble there and her lips press his skin, close to the lines by his mouth, just there. He can smell her, lavender and powder and some other spice. She eases back and he straightens. Leaves her hand on his arm. She is there, one hand on Mycroft's arm and one on his own like a bridge between them. Man up, John, back straight, get a grip. She's his mother.

He meets her eyes. It takes so much effort. She's looking at him with endless oceans of compassion. "Thank you," she says, and he swallows. Blinks. "Thank you for being there with my boy. Thank you for being his friend." Her lips press closed, thin out, and she looks off down the stairs. As though seeing him is difficult. Her hand tightens on his coat sleeve, then drops to her side. John would think this was anger on her face, but he's been having trouble judging people's expressions these past days. She reaches up, pats his shoulder gently. Steps away.

Mycroft says nothing as they begin slowly down the steps. Others are following now, and John wants to be gone too, but she stops and looks back and up at him over her shoulder. "My boy," she says, and her eyes are fierce. "My boy has done you a great and terrible wrong. I'm sure he thought it was the only way, but it was a wrong nonetheless." She is angry, John thinks, and he knows this is the usual reaction to a suicide. Appropriate. He wonders, fleetingly, why he isn't feeling the anger. Where it's hiding. If it'll come later or if he's permanently broken. But her expression has changed and she's looking at him. Pleading.

"Be strong, now. He always said you were strong." She seems to be trying to communicate something to him without words, her gaze anxious; Mycroft presses her hand where it's still on his arm, and she turns her head away. There's a pause, and then they're moving off, and they're such a solitary and lonely little pair going down the stairs. Mycroft's shoulders are hunched. Diminished, John thinks, by the grandeur of the church and the weight of the loss.

Then the others are coming out, murmuring, and John can see Lestrade and Molly looking over with equal parts concern and guilt as though they're going to approach and John oh so very much does not want to talk, or listen, so he steps hurriedly down the stairs to the street where the procession will begin to the graveside. John isn't sure he'll be able to manage, watching the casket lowered into the ground, but in the end - after the logistics of getting there and the trudging up the hillside in the unseasonal, too-warm sun and the standing and waiting and then the casket - it's easy. He feels nothing at all.

He's not a pallbearer. Mycroft said no. Not with your shoulder, John. And John swore then, and threw something that was probably expensive, but Mycroft refused and now John's left standing there with the others - fewer than were at the church, people seem to be slipping away as it goes on, cowards John thinks. Afraid of the press. He can't see them over the hill, but they're there. Cameras and coats and cables, all intently aimed at the little funeral going on to try and get another whiff of scandal. Mycroft handled security, though, so no-one's gotten in.

And then it's done and they're leaving and it's over and John has not cried a single tear, and all that's running through his head is that this is all very, very wrong. Off. Weird, odd, broken, and he knows that's just the death talking - but it is wrong. This is England. This isn't Afghanistan where you rather expect people you love, people who are your brothers, people you would give your life for in a heartbeat or less to die on you. Where you expect the blood and brain matter and intestines and the smell of it all, because it's a war. This is England where this does not happen, except this was a war too, and the reason it's all wrong is because he never ever ever thought they'd _lose_.


End file.
